When he was younger, when she had first started walking, he had taken her hand and walked along with her, wherever she went. But she never went beyond the boundary of the curtains Gran would draw around them for their visits. It had seemed like a game, one that he never knew the rules to. There was never any pattern to her movements, just that it was constant. Little circles, big circles, lines and zig-zags, whatever it took to get her from somewhere to somewhere. But she couldn't speak. She couldn't tell him what it was that she was doing, what game it was that she was playing. Even now that he was 14, he would have liked to play it with her, if he had known what the rules were.
But eventually, even the slow trundling tired her out and she would lay down on her cot and stare at the ceiling too, panting from the exertion. This was usually their cue to go home. Neville watched his mum lying on her bed now and wished that she could tell him why she worked so hard at shuffling. He had never once heard either of his parents' voices. Not that he could remember anyway. He suspected that when he was an infant, they must have talked to him. But he couldn't recall it. He lowered his head. He had a hard time remembering anything but this, the ward where his parents lay entombed in their own bodies.
He had envied Harry Potter quite a few times in the past. Surely death was better than this. At least you could grieve and heal. But this perpetual hope that someday they would get better was a torture in and of itself. Each time he visited them, he hoped he'd see something different, but nothing ever changed. When he saw them, they were exactly the same. They never knew who he was, never talked to him, never did anything different.
It was only his Gran's voice he heard now, prattling on and on about nothing important. But she was wrapping up. He could tell she had that finality in her voice again and he could hear her knees creak as she began to rise. But then he heard another sound. One he hadn't heard before, the groaning of the bed springs as they moved under his mum's shifting weight. He looked up again and saw her swinging her legs over the edge of the bed again.
He was baffled. Was she going to go through her walking routine again? She'd never done it more than once before. And she was looking right at him this time. He held his breath as she shambled in his direction and waited patiently for her arrival. She was motioning towards him with her hand, as if she had something to give him. Even Gran had gone quiet at this and had plopped back down in her chair.
Neville held out his hand, waiting. And when his mum finally reached him, she dropped an empty Droobles Best Blowing Gum wrapper into it. He looked up at her in wonder and met her eyes. She was looking at him and smiling, waiting expectantly. What on earth could she be waiting for him to do? Then he realized what she was waiting for.
"Thanks Mum," he said and she nodded, before tottering back to her bed. Today was a new day. Today something different had happened. And Neville felt hope blossoming inside of him like a Mimbulus Mimbletonia. And it hurt. He didn't want hope.
Today his mom had recognized him. Maybe not really who he was, maybe not as her son, but she knew he was the one who brought her the gum. And this might be all she would ever know. Neville wanted to cry, but he didn't dare do so in front of Gran. She was silent for once herself, staring in amazement at his mum.
"Come on Neville," she said brusquely as she rose to her feet. "It was nice seeing you dears again," she spoke to the reclining figures. "We'll see you again next week." And with that they were walking out the door.
Neville looked back at his mum, lying with her eyes closed peacefully. There was a part of him that wished she could rest forever and not be stuck here this way. But there was always that part of him too that wished they'd get magically better, that someday … she could come home.
Neville looked at the wrapper he still held in his hand and he carefully put it in his pocket like a fragile treasure he was afraid of breaking. He turned away and followed his Gran out of the hospital. Hope was a dangerous thing.
Disclaimer: These characters are not of my own creation, but the sole property of JK Rowling.